


The Calm Before

by musamihi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age of Sail, Alternate Universe, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:32:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Week 5 of sherlock_ldws @ LJ, theme: AU.  Age of sail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Calm Before

The first thing John saw after coming above deck was Holmes doubled over the railing, a cheerful midshipman advising him to hold back his cravat lest he be sick on it again. John made straight for him, wiping blood from his fingers with his handkerchief.

"Mr Holmes." He laid his hand almost affectionately on Holmes' bent back. He couldn't help feeling badly for the Ambassador's brother, shipped off to the East Indies on a diplomatic mission in which he seemed to have no interest (and for which he certainly lacked the requisite tact). His skin was a familiar shade of faint green, like churned-up foam. Something sharp in his eye softened when he saw John, and John felt an unseamanlike flutter in his own stomach.

"Doctor." Holmes swallowed. "The air – I thought –"

"Never mind it." John set his hand at Holmes' waist to lead him round. "Better get below. I'll fetch you down some tea."

He was only seasick, not a case for the sick berth. John was grateful for the private cabin Holmes was afforded as a political passenger, because once you got past the quick temper and the black mood, he was good conversation – better than John's messmates, or his nine (nine!) cases of pox.

And he was much more beautiful.

John wondered if Holmes _knew_ it. When he took his tea their fingers pressed too long together, making John's heart skip, his mouth dry out. And yet John wouldn't leave right away – he never did. He'd sit for almost an hour talking with him; he'd let himself imagine the taste of something he knew he could never have, sink into the dangerous depth of that voice that had become like a siren call to him, its promise no doubt imagined, but real enough to drown in.


End file.
